


A Hunt and a Drink

by Castillon02



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, M/M, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-12 13:03:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19946626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castillon02/pseuds/Castillon02
Summary: While in Scotland for a boarding school reunion, Bond meets a treacherous pair of old classmates and a fang-faced new friend.





	A Hunt and a Drink

**Author's Note:**

> For 007 Fest 2019, for the 'disembowelment' and 'chase sequence' prompts as well as AU Day!

This was Scotland! Bond could have howled. If there were one city where he should have been safe from people clubbing him outside of a bar and stuffing him into a boot, Edinburgh should have been it. He was there for a school reunion, for fuck’s sake; he had zero interest in Scottish espionage! Hell, he had zero interest in the reunion, except one of his school chums had passed on and had left him a memento from their Judo Club days.

The worst part was that these seemed to be amateurs. They’d taken his mobile and zip-tied his hands in the moments right after the attack, but they’d left his feet free and their golf clubs were in the boot with him. He had a nine iron stuck right between his shoulder blades. If there were any justice in the world then he’d get to use it to bash their faces in.

It was the matter of a few moments to wriggle the Q Branch watch around his wrists into position and cut through the zip-tie. (The watch had a snap-out razor instead of explosives; for some reason, Major Boothroyd refused to issue those to him while Bond was on home soil.) Moreover, all 00s had been trained in the latching mechanisms of a car boot for exactly this reason, so he could exit the vehicle fairly quickly, now. The problem was that they were going at speed, probably on the M90 since he’d heard the telltale sounds of the bay as they passed over it. It would do him no good if he dove for freedom only to get run over like a dog trying to cross a road. He’d jump out when they stopped for petrol.

…If they ever stopped for petrol. They might not. Bond had taken a week of leave, with vague plans to do some golfing of his own while he was here. He didn’t have a gun, he didn’t know how well these amateurs were armed or what they wanted, and no one would miss him for another six days.

(The old homestead was closer than ever, but he hadn’t decided if he would visit yet, hadn’t given any notice to the Kincades. They would be glad for the surprise, but would it be worth having to go through the house, see the ghastly covered furniture, make appropriate noises about how pleased he was that the old girl was still in such fine shape? Perhaps not.)

The roads got worse over the next two hours, and the sounds of other vehicles far less frequent. The fact that it was arse o’clock in the morning didn’t help. Bond quickly dismissed the idea of poking his hand out the tail light to signal for outside aid; for one thing, no one at Six would ever let him live it down if he had to be rescued by someone’s granny.

Finally, they turned off the motorway. No one else turned with them. The vehicle slowed to a definite trundle, bumping over older asphalt, and the road went through several twists and curves. He likely wouldn’t get a better opportunity.

As the vehicle rounded the latest curve, Bond flipped the trunk open and leaped out the back, landing in a roll that took him off the side of the road and into… some woods?

The forest was full of shadows, despite the full moon overhead. Something rustled in the trees that probably wasn’t but certainly might be a Scottish wildcat, which looked like an ordinary housecat but would as soon gut you as look at you.

…It sounded a bit bigger than a housecat, was the problem. And it shouldn’t, because bears and wolves were extinct in Scotland.

Ahead, the red brake lights shone through the shadowy treeline as the car screeched to a halt. A door opened and the sound of swearing filled the air.

Bond ran.

***

Ten minutes later, his pursuers were huffing and puffing much more than he was, giving away their position with a flashlight, and randomly firing an M16 into the woods. He’d been captured by idiots.

Bond dropped to ground level behind a log. Less chance of getting shot that way. In a minute, he’d see if he could circle round to their car and either sabotage it or drive away in it.

“—not what I signed up for!” one deep, vaguely familiar voice complained. Someone from the Fettes reunion?

“Remember the fucking money and shoot the fucking rifle!” another, posher, also somewhat familiar voice said.

Was that Algie from the year below him? The shiftless ponce who still lived on his father’s estate? Who would be stupid enough to hire Algie to try to kill anybody, let alone a 00 agent?

His thoughts were interrupted by a growl. Deep and rumbling, it was not in the vicinity of fucking around. It was also coming from the treeline right next to him.

“Oh shit,” Algie whispered.

It had to be a dog. A wild dog. A really large—

A distinct sniffing sound and the tread of paws on earth in front of him had Bond bringing his arms up to protect his throat.

Pointed ears and nose. Slavering fangs. Sickle-shaped tail. At least as long as Bond was tall.

The hairs on the back of Bond’s neck stood on end.

The wolf (and it was definitely a wolf) stopped in front of him. It sniffed at his arms and chuffed.

Then it sprang over him and launched itself in Algie’s direction. A spray of gunfire, a muted yelp, the sickening crunch of bone breaking, the squelch of flesh tearing, shrill screaming that descended into agonized moans.

The wolf snarled again and this time there was no retort of gunfire to meet it.

“Run, run, run, you idiot!”

“It hurts, oh fuck, it hurts—my arm—my _guts_ —”

In the first sensible move they’d made all night, Algie and his friend ran back to the car.

Bond peered over the log.

The wolf, a dark shadow with bright eyes under the light of the full moon, flicked its ears at him, crouching over the gun. Its back right leg quivered, buckling, until the wolf finally refused to let it hold any weight at all.

Oh, God. Probably the last wolf in Great Britain, some eco-scientist’s wet dream, and it had been shot on Bond’s watch. If the wolf didn’t finish hunting Algie down, Bond was going to.

“You’re all right,” Bond murmured, standing up slowly, checking which trees he could hie himself up if the wolf got shirty. “Yes, you’re a wonderful danger-machine, aren’t you? A beautiful predator who could gut me like a fish if he wanted. Yes, you are.”

The wolf’s tongue lolled out of its bloodied muzzle.

Bond hesitated. He needed to find a phone and call this in. On the other hand, the wolf needed help. On the third hand, the wolf would tear his head off if he caused it any pain, which bandaging a bullet wound was sure to do.

If he’d had a tranquilizer with him, maybe… As it was, he started walking towards the road, careful not to turn his back.

The wolf watched him go, never looking away.

***

Bond walked on the road in the dark. The path he chose was downhill, which was easier, and which was the way they had come. The feeling of being watched refused to fade.

A few miles in, a bark echoed out of the trees to his right. Shortly afterward, the rumble of a car’s engine came down the hill. The headlights on Algie’s pretentious Bentley broke through the darkness, the searching crane of Algie’s neck obvious as they passed.

Bond smiled from behind a tree. If he got away, he’d report them. They knew it and he knew it. They couldn’t give up until he was dead or they were.

Poor planning, Algie. Very poor. He must have been in debt to someone.

As the night wore on, the wolf barked twice more, and twice more Bond hid behind a tree as the Bentley cruised by. The car didn’t come back after its last trip down. Either Algie had given up and decided to flee the country, or (more likely) he had finally realized that there was only one main road out of this place, so the easiest thing to do would be to find a nice spot around a bend and ambush him.

The first tinges of grey started lighting the sky. Bond’s stomach was rumbling, but if his was then so was Algie’s and his friend’s. One of them had a wolf bite in the mix, too, and likely no access to strong painkillers.

Perhaps a nap was in order; he could rest and demoralize Algie all at once.

As Bond was searching for a decent tree to nap in, the wolf padded out onto the road, a rabbit in its jaws.

Bond froze. No running, he knew that much. It would only activate the wolf’s chase instinct.

The wolf came closer, so close that Bond could have reached out and touched it, and dropped the rabbit at Bond’s feet. Then it waited.

“Thank you?” Bond said.

The wolf’s dark, sweeping tail wagged a little. Its flanks were covered in mud and leaves; he couldn’t see any blood coming out of the mess, which was probably a good sign. Its eyes were green. Which wasn’t, Bond distantly recalled, a traditional wolf color.

Oh, fuck. This wasn’t the last wolf in Scotland. This was some stupid millionaire’s half-breed pet who had escaped and was now attaching itself to the first human it found who wasn’t a complete dolt.

That had to be it. Wolves didn’t have green eyes, and there was no other good explanation for the way the wolf was watching him, familiar and expectant.

Very carefully, Bond reached down and picked up the rabbit.

The wolf started back into the woods, but as it got to the edge, it glanced back at him. Glanced back into the woods. Glanced back at him.

Bond was an expert in body language. He just hadn’t known a wolf could say ‘follow me’ so clearly.

“All right, I’m coming,” he said, and followed. He knew an ally when it failed to bite him on the nose.

***

The wolf’s den turned out to be an elevated hunting blind. Bond followed him up the conveniently angled ladder and found himself in a wooden shack stocked with metal chests that, when he peered inside, contained water bottles, jerky, a first aid kit, hygiene supplies, and even a few pairs of trackies. A cot and a wooden bench took up opposite walls.

The wolf curled up on a large, well-used rug that covered most of the floor space. He heaved a great sigh, seemingly as tired as Bond was.

Bond could empathize; bullet wounds took it out of you.

Had the wolf’s owner abandoned him out here? No caretaker, no companionship, no support? That would be all right for wildlife rehabilitation, but for an animal used to humans… Suppose the wolf approached someone, like the hunter who owned this blind, and they took a frightened shot?

He would have to find somewhere safe for the wolf to live. A refuge organization. The basement of MI6. His flat. A place where it would be cared for.

He set the rabbit on the bench, ate some jerky and drank some water, and settled down on the cot. Wolf or no, he would be sleeping much better than Algie.

At least, he thought so until the wolf started whimpering. Then moaning. Then thrashing on the floor with a howl.

Bond damn near back-flipped out of the hide as the howl gave way to a primal scream and the wolf’s muscles and bones started to contort. This was why he couldn’t have nice things, he thought, panting beneath the blind. He let himself get attached to something and it turned out to have super-rabies.

The noises stopped after a few moments, though. And Bond was terminally curious. Maybe the wolf had epilepsy instead of super-rabies?

He went up the ladder and poked his head in.

The first rays of dawn shone through the hunting blind’s lone window, and in place of the dark-furred wolf, a dark-haired man lay on the rug. Definitely not rabies, Bond noted. And quite pretty for a blood-covered creature that shouldn’t exist.

The man’s eyes fluttered open and he sat up with a groan. “Could you help me clean this up?” he asked, gesturing at his injured, mud-covered thigh without modesty. “It’ll close over the bullet if we don’t get it out soon.”

He had a genuine English accent and his enunciation was lovely. Part of Bond had expected him to bark.

“Right, yes,” Bond said, climbing back in and fetching the first aid kit. “No danger of you biting me at the moment, I suppose.”

“Not unless you want me to,” the man agreed, and it was only when Bond glanced back, incredulous, that the man let a bit of a wolf’s sly grin slip onto his blood-covered face.

***

His name was Q, he said, lying on his belly while Bond leaned over his newly baby-wiped bum with the tweezers from the first-aid kit.

Q, it turned out, was with British Intelligence, too. No, not in his capacity as a four-footed killing machine; he worked with Major Boothroyd.

“I could still smell him on you,” Q said, nodding at Bond’s watch. “Good thing, too.”

“Oh?” Bond asked, wondering how close he’d come to being made into mincemeat.

Q smiled; it looked only marginally less threatening now that his face was clean. “We get a bit territorial,” he said. “That gunman’s insides will have started to fall out by now.” He winced as Bond pinched the skin around the wound on Q’s thigh, pulling it taut and open again. It had already started to scab over. Fast healing, indeed.

“Does Boothroyd know…” Bond trailed off, starting to invade with the tweezers now. ‘Know that you’re a dog-creature? With fangs?’ probably wasn’t his most diplomatic phrasing.

Q shrugged. “Not sure. Ow! M knows; the PM and the heads of intelligence usually—ow, shit—usually get read in if we don’t think they’re morons. Everyone sort of dawdled about telling Thatcher until she wasn’t a problem anymore. So, you know, the Major’s probably been around long enough to guess, but he hasn’t said anything to me about it.”

The tweezers finally hit their mark with an audible scrape, and Q’s entire body arched up, his hands clenched into fists. “Fucking pull it out, please,” he snarled.

“Not what I usually hear when people in front of me are naked,” Bond remarked, and while Q was letting out a startled laugh, he grabbed and pulled.

“Shite!” Q yelped, but then it was out. He started to stand, but Bond’s hands urged him back down, and down he went.

A good listener, this Q. Funny and fierce and, apparently, loyal to the same people Bond was.

(Also, ‘secretly a werewolf’ was extremely unlikely to be a ploy by the enemy to gain his trust.)

“Let me bandage you up,” Bond said. He tossed the bullet back into the first aid box with the tweezers.

“Wow, the royal treatment,” Q joked; he grimaced, but he didn’t move away.

Bond’s hands did their bandage-wrapping trick, tight but not too tight, familiar as the feel of a gun after all the injuries he’d taken care of. Q didn’t seem to get much taking care of, himself. Perhaps he felt he didn’t need it.

Bond knew how that went.

“Let me drive you back down to London,” he found himself saying. “After we take care of those two idiots. That is, if you’d like to help?”

He could probably just requisition Q’s aid; Double-Ohs had the authority for that kind of thing. But it wouldn’t be any fun if he had to do that.

Luckily, Q met his gaze and his mouth quirked with mischief. “I was just thinking about how to make sure those two never fire another bullet.” He tugged a pair of trackies up over his hips, which was sort of shame, but also not, because then Bond could think about pulling them down again.

“Ideas?” Bond asked.

Q pulled a plank out of the wall, revealing a laptop and a stack of batteries hidden behind it. “I have some cameras set up around the area. Let’s take a little look,” he said.

‘Some’ was an understatement. Q had dozens of eyes and three hibernating drones set up in what turned out to be one of Scotland’s national parks. He flicked through the visuals with ease, clearly familiar with each camera’s location.

“I come here a few times a year,” he said conversationally. “It’s ideal for a werewolf to be familiar with their surroundings.”

Werewolf. Part of Bond still boggled at the word. The other part was idly wondering if Q mated for life.

“No other visitors in the area, so we’ll have freedom of movement. And they should be…yes, right there,” Q said, catching the Bentley on the side of the main road. “That’s where they were earlier, too. I caught that rabbit nearby—it screamed like mad, gave them a good scare.”

Technology and psychological warfare. No wonder they had Q working with Boothroyd. He might even fill the major’s shoes one day.

“We could always go back for that gun,” Bond said, sneaking a look at Q.

“Can’t just leave it out there,” Q agreed, “but I have one here if you want one.” He reached under the wooden bench and pulled out a Sako 85 Finnlight rifle.

It was a beautiful machine: slender, dark, and deadly, much like the young man in front of him. Bond hadn’t worked with one before, but he read the trade magazines, and it was a gun that was reputedly as accurate as it was beautiful.

Bond swallowed. He _wanted_. “Can I buy you a drink after this?” he asked.

Q gave him a narrow-eyed look. “This wouldn’t be because you want to fuck a werewolf, would it?”

“It’s because I want to fuck someone competent,” Bond said honestly. He held his breath as Q considered him. ‘Competent’ wasn’t usually a word that got him laid. Nor did honesty.

But after a moment, Q nodded. “All right,” he said, and sent him a half-smile that promised he was competent at things that weren’t computers, too. “I’ll look forward to it.” He passed the Finnlight to Bond. “007. Shall we get started?”

“Q,” Bond said. He took the gun.

A hunt and a drink: there were definitely worse ways to start a first date.

**Author's Note:**

> Constructive criticism is welcome. Thank you for reading <3


End file.
